Monday, 23 April 2012

I was having a look in the attic this morning when I came across an old Betamax video recorder which had been bequeathed to me. Do you remember Betamax?

Weren't they wonderful machines... so state-of-the-art and so beautiful to look at. The first time I saw one was when I visited my dear old Aunt Gladwyn. She had a glass eye and for many years, worked as a seamstress, and then ran a fish 'n' chip shop (which apparently is a celebrated English cuisine). The first time I saw a Betamax was in her sitting-room in her coal-miner's house. I remember that it sat pride of place in the centre of the sitting-room, surrounded by chintz, whippets and flat-caps drying on the stove. She had even knitted a red, yellow and purple cover for it. Oh, I do love that era!

A little bit like Shakira, the Betamax promised 'Whatever, Whenever'. It was coloured brown and cream, gave out a constant electrical 'hum' when switched on, and weighed roughly the same as a breeze-block, and was just as visually appealing.

Also curiously like Shakira, the sound was so terrible, it was impossible to understand the words of anything being played.

But despite its massive shortcomings, the success of the Betamax was universal - millions of households up and down the country flocked to buy one and to relish the ability to play back episodes of Coronation Street, The Wombles, and Bagpuss (one of my all-time favourites).

I recall that children in my village were frequently caught 'bunking off school lessons' and spending the time at home - whilst their parents were out at work - avidly watching Deep Throat (a very interesting 'anthropological' film or documentary only screened very late at night) and its five sequels. There were also numerous national reports of abuse of the 'freeze frame' option on the Betamax whilst watching such documentaries.

Such was the problem that the Education Department of East Wiltshire council announced a ban on watching Deep Throat to all under 12s at the local village school.

Now, of course, I never got as far as Deep Throat but I always enjoyed watching every single series ever produced of The Wombles, recorded on Betamax, complete with plenty of screen-rolling and interference to the picture. I even recall that on my first ever visit to London, spurred on by my childhood reverie for Uncle Bulgaria, I went looking for The Wombles late at night on Hampstead Heath.

Always Fanny's most favourite TV programme - pictured here is Uncle Bulgaria, from The Wombles. Sadly, The Wombles is banned in many countries due to its intensely, graphic sexual scenes.

The only problem with the Betamax was that it invariably jammed the tape mid-way through a screening, usually due to the device overheating. The only way of fixing this was to immerse the Betamax in a bowl of cold water for half an hour.

Before tossing the Betamax in the rubbish bin, I decided this morning to have a peek and see what was on one of the old tapes that accompanied it. It was a recording of Songs of Praise, which I did not watch as I could not stomach that Thora Bird trying to sing, but I was horrified by this television advert that appeared half-way through:

Thank you, Mr Chocolate Manufacturer, for spawning a nation of fatties. Had it not been for you running this dangerous, ruthless advert in the 1980s, our streets would not today be packed full of the obese who believed that this dangerous little chocolate bar was full of "goodness". And it only cost 10p, so kids could afford to buy 4 of them in one go! A finger of fudge is just enough to give your kids a treat... I've got a finger for you - the middle one.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Many readers of my blog have been writing to me over the past 2 weeks to enquire what came of my trip to Dorset, and my plans to go cottaging.

I can disclose to you now that I have been knocked up in bed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as a direct result of that ill-fated trip; a disorder that I hitherto knew nothing about, but which I understand is best treated with copious amounts of gin and vodka.

You will recall that I had planned a week long trip to Bournemouth, via several Dorset country towns, with the sole purpose of going cottaging, as I had heard that it's all the rage at the moment - George Michael has been at it, as have several MPs.

I had expected to see this type of thing, when I went cottaging:

Bournemouth Tourist Information were very surprised to hear that I wanted to go cottaging in their town, and they refused to return my calls. At the time, I wondered why. It was my Transvestite Friend, Glora Girdle, who convinced me to go cottaging, and it is her I blame for luring me into it, without knowing myself exactly what it was.As it was, she accompanied me on the journey down and decided to blind-fold me and lead me by the hand to the first Dorset cottage. Imagine my shock-horror, when I pulled off the blind-fold and saw not a Thomas Hardy thatched cottage, but this:-

That's right, readers, Fanny had not fallen down a rabbit-hole and ended up in some strange world of singing animals, nor had she taken the wrong turning. She had instead been tricked by her lack of knowledge of British customs. 'Cottaging' has nothing to do with bucolic, thatched 18th century houses, covered in roses and honeysuckle, set in quiet lanes filled only with the hum of bees.Cottaging is a little-known British gay slang term referring to anonymous sex between elderly men in a public lavatory; the term has its roots in that many self-contained toilet blocks resemble cottages in their appearance, rather than the more commonly-used meaning elsewhere in the world of a small, cosy countryside home.

As I stood in this particular Victorian toilet (located half-way between Dorchester and Bournemouth), amidst the stench of poppers and urine-rusted urinals, I heard the lewd whisperings of a dirty old man beckoning me through a gloryhole that had been carved through a cubicle wall. All I could see was a learing mouth, clearly an elderly man's, framed by the gloryhole, and nothing more. 'It' had on jewel-glitter lipstick. For a moment, it pouted at me, and then spoke: "I like to have sex in coffins" it whispered.

As a sophisticated young socialite, I can now see that I was simple and naive to have trusted this trashy queen, Gloria Girdle, and her proposed 'classical Dorset cottaging' tour. From now on, I shall be a prodigy of information on British slang, and what it means exactly, rather than relying on what it should mean. Thank you, Gloria, for your treacherous, premeditated cunning, in luring Fanny into such a terrible experience.

Gloria Girdle, you are nothing but a failed, delusional lounge singer, who was boo'ed off stage and now works for the minimum wage in Hannibal's Bookshop (a London establishment itself that should have been burnt down years ago).

About Me

My name is Fanny Love. Described by the media as "like Alice in Wonderland, on acid",
I'm a Texan-born transvestite, who also happens to be a part-time super model, celebrated authoress and occasional shoplifter. I adore the company of beautiful young men at my isolated country estate in the English countryside. Join me on my unorthodox travels around little England, accompanied by Juan (my pin-up Brazilian chauffeur) and my two adorable dogs, Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop (a rainbow-dyed poodle) and Brenda (a 3-year old Doberman bitch with an obsession about red stilettos).